


Chaos is a Theory

by Paperyink



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Braavos, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 01:30:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21218324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paperyink/pseuds/Paperyink
Summary: People don't move the world; the world moves people. Gendry is forced to flee King's Landing before Davos returns for him, and his life goes another way.





	Chaos is a Theory

### I

Gendry’s neck cricks painfully as he throws a hurried glance behind him, teeth gritted so tight he’s bound to crack one, maybe even two.

Or maybe his teeth will fall out after he bludgeons himself with his own hammer. How bloody stupid he’s been, thinking the days of looking over his shoulder were over, but up until an hour ago he was Jack, a sometimes-bespoke blacksmith with a tidy shop half-way down the Street of Steel. His customers had passed word of his skills around as “Jack-the-Smith.” The baker and the butcher and smirking tavern wench from across the street had greeted him as “Jack-Lad” when he hauled over helmets and breastplates in exchange for a full meal. And the one friend he’d begun to almost-trust— a watchmaker from two blocks over— called him Jackie, just to annoy him. It was enough that Gendry had very nearly become a memory in his own head.

It lasted for two years, and it was over in two minutes.

For all his fear of Goldcloaks and the Queensguard, his downfall was a portly, middle-aged woman the color of wheat, who cut off mid-order (for a thin, collapsible dagger that Gendry will now never get to make) to shriek, “Gendry Waters, is that _you_? Gods be good, with those eyes and that hair, it must be! I haven’t seen you since your poor mother, Seven bless her, moved on from this world!”

He was packed up and fleeing down a back alley not five minutes later, his entire life’s possessions hurled pell-mell into the threadbare sack currently biting into his skin. It was hardly a difficult task; the sack would be light as air if it weren’t weighed down by the pieces he couldn’t bear to leave.

Behind him are sailors and smugglers and whores, but none that look like they’ve ever shared the company of Cersei Lannister, so he sighs heavily and turns back around to the filthy, stinking harbor. It’s clogged with more waste than ships, but Gendry knows firsthand that the sea goes indigo and clear just beyond the fourth cliff. In front of him is a stocky boy who’d be strapping if he had enough to eat, his dirty mop of golden hair nearly blowing into Gendry’s face with the sea breeze as they wait their turn to barter safe passage. Despite himself, he thinks of Lommy, muddy and blonde and dead.

Gendry eyes the hulking ships with no small amount of apprehension. If he had a choice he’d never be on water again, but he remembers the cold mud and biting insects of the Kingsroad and decides he prefers this escape route. Though the problem isn’t _escaping_ King’s Landing; he’s been smuggled in and out enough to know where to hide and how to act. The problem is finding a better place to go to. As far as Gendry understands it, the entire world is at war or worse. Murderers, rapers, and slavers are in every direction. He doesn’t have half a chance for a peaceful life, let alone a good one, and so it doesn’t really matter to him where he ends up.

The boy in front of him, however, seems to care a lot. “I want to go north,” he says when it’s his turn, rudely and confidently enough that Gendry instantly knows he is the kind of street rat that managed to snatch a scrape of power in the world and uses it to remind others that they were too slow.

The graying, sun-beaten beanpole that is Gendry’s key to freedom— or staying alive, anyway— doesn’t look up from his ledger. “There’s none but war and frosted crops in the North,” he says uninterestedly, his voice a dusty wheeze. “Some say the dead walk there, too.”

Blonde-and-ratty sets his jaw stubbornly. “The Lord of Light and his followers are poisoning the minds of the smallfolk, leading them away from the Seven. I intend to shield them from these radicals in any way I can.”

A religious street rat, then. That would explain his grey, ragged clothing, too; every fanatic wears a bloody smock. Beanpole finally lifts his eyes, raising a scornful brow. “Oh yes?”

Blonde-and-ratty nods, his eyes gleaming with the ferocity Gendry’s seen in too many desperate men since the High Sparrow came— “And I’ve heard tell that the bastard Jon Snow gathers with the infidel wildlings south of the Wall, bringing their strange beliefs closer to us. It is heresy!”

“_My brother, Jon Snow,_” whispers a half-forgotten voice in Gendry’s head. “_He’s my favorite. He’s at the Wall, now. When we get to the North we’ll go straight to him, and…_”

Gendry shakes his head irritably, trying to push off the boundless guilt and pain that comes with this particular ghost before it can take root. The dead just won’t leave him alone today.

“Shut up, already,” Beanpole barrels through the rest of blond-and-ratty’s rant, holding up a gnarled hand. “I couldn’t give less of a shit about your righteous fuck-all if either the Lord of Light or one of your Seven walked right up to me and sat on my cock.”

Blonde-and-ratty visibly swallows down his anger and offense. “I have money. I can pay—”

“Ain’t none of these ships going north whether you like it or not. Now choose somewhere else to go or get out of my fuckin’ line!”

Blond-and-ratty clenches his jaw and looks like he’s about to make an extremely bad decision, but then stalks away. Beanpole turns towards Gendry without a second look.

“If you say anything about the North, I’ll chuck you straight in the water.”

Gendry shakes his head. “I don’t need to go north. I don’t care where I go, I just need to go.”

Beanpole eyes him skeptically. “Hardly the best thing to say to get on a ship. Anyone who don’t care what’s in front of them’s got something wicked behind them.”

A nervous sweat erupts on the back of Gendry’s neck. He’s never been good with words, and he’s a worse liar. “I’m a trained smith, a hard worker,” he tries. “And I can fight. I’ll make a sword for you and I’ll swing one too if I have to.” Never mind that he knows next to nothing about swordsmanship.

Beanpole snorts derisively but seems to think about it. The silence goes on for too long. Gendry can practically hear his time above ground slipping away. Beanpole takes stock of him. “So you’re a desperate smith. ‘Don’t mean you’re a good’un.”

Gendry drops the sack onto the wooden boards of the dock and rummages through it, coming out with the smooth breastplate he made for some middle-level lord who never came to collect. “Tell me where you’ve seen armor like this? The plating is light and curved but will block a hit hard as any because I know how to make it like that. Imagine what I can do with the parts of your ship that are bent and frayed. And if there’s a smithy wherever you’re going, I’ll make you whatever you—”

“Alright, alright,” Beanpole interrupts impatiently. “You’ll be down under the deck just like every other beggar. There’ll be no special treatment for a blacksmith on the run, understand me?”

Gendry nods vigorously. “Yes ser. Thank you, ser.” He hastens to gather his things when a hand grips the neck of his tunic. He looks up and meets Beanpole’s bloodshot gaze.

“When we get to Braavos, you best make me something fit for a king. Else I’ll have your tongue ripped from your throat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have that GoT Scientific American article to thank for this.


End file.
